


Like a Flag to the Floor

by poisontaster



Series: Sex Pollen [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Corsetry, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Inexperience, M/M, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4953337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Beta by offtheceiling, nymeria, strippedpink, nilchance and mona1347, with my thanks.</p></blockquote>





	Like a Flag to the Floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beanside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanside/gifts).



_"why why why do you let me go?" she says._  
_"I feel you pulling back, I feel you changing shape."_  
_Just as I'm breaking free,_  
_she hangs herself in front of me._  
_Slips her dress like a flag to the floor,_  
_and hands in the sky, surrenders it all..._  
"From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea" – The Cure

The only time Dean balks is at the corset.

"I'll look stupid," he says, embarrassed. He looks down at his feet and shuffles them. "I'll look like a girl."

And Sam doesn't argue. He just folds up the bundle of stiff, dusty-purple silk until it looks small—small _er_ —in his hands and puts it back in the sleek black bag it came from. Dean can't read Sam's expression and as he shifts uneasily from foot to foot, waiting for what happens next, Sam puts the bag in the closet, goes into the bathroom, putters around to the sound of running water and then comes out in nothing but his boxers. Dean stares up through his lashes, his already hard cock aching and stiffening more at the sight of Sam's water-dribbled half-naked body. Dean hasn't moved, _doesn't_ move, though his fingers twitch with the need to press against his cock. _Something._

Sam plops heavily down on the bed, sprawls out comfortably wide and grabs the TV remote. "Here," he says and tosses something. Dean's hand goes out reflexively and it slaps into his palm. Sam turns on the TV and Dean opens his fingers to see his bracelet, lying there limply.

Dean's not slow on the uptake. He gets it, loud and clear.

_We're finished here._

Numbly, Dean snaps the cuff on his wrist again.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he says finally. He mumbles the words, low and sort of rushed, but it doesn't matter, because Sam only waves a hand in absent acknowledgment. He's got the laptop open too, resting on his stomach and his eyes go back and forth between the screen and TV. His cock is a clear line of delineation on his thigh and Dean wants it so badly he's salivating.

But he only strips out of his clothes and goes into the bathroom and into the hottest shower he can manage. His cock is hard enough to cut diamonds, curving up towards his belly and knocking against his skin with the slightest movement. He's so hard it hurts. He ignores it, though, doesn't jerk off, doesn't touch himself at all.

Because Sam wouldn’t like it.

* * *

He still sleeps next to Sam, which is a kind of comfort. Like the return of his bracelet, it tells him that it's not necessarily _over_. But he's still twitchy and wired, wanting to toss and turn and not quite daring to, for fear of waking his brother. Sam doesn't hold him like usual, either, lying with his back to Dean. Dean lies on his back with his hands folded on his chest and twiddle-taps his fingers.

 _Next time,_ he thinks, _I'll be better. I'll be good. I can do this. I can._

And it's not even that the corset had horrified him that much. He hadn't been expecting it, for sure, but once he'd gotten over his first, _oh,_ hell _no_! reaction, the idea was kind of…interesting. But that—the realization of interest—had kind of brought his new life— _their_ new life—crashing in on him. How much he's changed. How he doesn't really know how it happened, other than the obvious—LeChard's pollen. How he's fucking his brother—his little brother—and begging for the privilege.

And suddenly, everything that had made so much sense about them seemed so utterly crazy.

It had just been a minute. One minute, for him to take it in, to adjust. But it had been a critical minute and now Sam was displeased. He hadn't been good.

 _I can be good,_ Dean thinks, and waits for dawn.

* * *

The next morning, Sam just wakes up and rolls out of bed. A minute later, the shower goes on. Dean gets up and throws on yesterday's clothes. The bracelet seems to fit weirdly. He feels twice as conscious of it. He goes to get Sam's coffee, careful to get all the girly glop Sam likes it in, snags a paper and heads back to the room.

Sam is out of the shower and fiddling with the laptop while his damp-tousled hair drips onto his shoulders. "Thanks," he says, when Dean hands him the coffee and then hums in surprise and pleasure when he tastes it, still poking keys idly. Dean stands there, aware that he should take his shower so they can get moving, aware that he has the bracelet and he doesn't have to wait like this and unable to move on anyway.

Finally, Sam looks up at him, eyebrows raised, and his lips twist flat. "I'm not mad, Dean," he says, and he sounds tired.

Dean's head nods for him, rusty and stiff. He turns and goes to shower.

* * *

But if Sam's not mad, he's not happy either. Or…something.

They get up, they go through their routine, they tear a swath through a part of Georgia that seems to be riddled with ghosts and come back to their room pretty much every night stinking of smoke and dead things.

Sam doesn't touch him.

Or rather, he touches Dean, but it's all casual, meaningless touches; grabbing Dean's shoulder to signal, kicking Dean under diner tables to get him to stop humming, mutually traded blows while sparring. The bracelet stays firmly on Dean's wrist and it starts to feel like a brand.

Sometimes Dean will catch Sam looking at it. It's not like Dean doesn't take every opportunity to remind Sam it's there, flashing and flexing his wrist in reminder. But Sam looks and then looks away, his mouth pressing flat.

It might as well be a neon sign over his head: _Not Good._

Dean feels like he's going crazy.

His shoulders hover up around his ears pretty much all the time and his back feels like someone's been beating him. Well, some of that was the wall he got tossed into, but most of it's just pent up tension that he can't release, even in the hunt.

 _Not Good,_ he thinks, an endless loop. _I am Not Good._

Fuck.

* * *

It takes Dean a while to get it all together, but the breaking point is really the night that he comes out of the shower to find Sam jerking off in the bed.

There's porn on the TV—not lesbians, this time, sadly—and the tinny moans and grunts hit him like a blow, stopping him dead in the doorway. Sam's sprawled out wide on the bed, lazy-eyed and glistening, his fingers, his cock, slick with lube from the bottle on the nightstand.

The whole room feels steamier, hotter than the one he just left and the smell of Sam—his sweat, his sex, the musk of his body—fills the whole space. Dean has to double over he's so hard, so fast.

The woman on the screen—a redhead with a strap-on—slaps her partner hard on the thigh and both Sam and Dean jerk like it was them and real. Sam makes a soft, stifled noise deep in his throat, his skin flushing darker as he thrusts up into his closed palm.

Dean can't handle this. He can't watch Sam do this and not touch him. Not suck him. Not take him into his body.

His legs feel plastic and fake as he walks to the bed. He goes to his knees and puts his arms on the bed, waiting, wanting. The bracelet cuts his skin like darkness, still firmly in place, holding him into shape. He can't break like this. He can't let go.

Sam's thighs are tense, trembling. So is his stomach. Dean recognizes the signs; Sam's close. Sam's close and Dean knows he could bring Sam over, if Sam would just _let him_.

Sam's head turns. His eyes are unfocused; sweat glazes at his hairline, his lip. " _No,_ Dean," he says and Dean flinches back like he's been slapped, arms falling to his sides.

He gets up, turns around and goes back into the bathroom, and tries not to hear it when Sam comes.

* * *

Later.

Later, later, later.

It's later and there's no relief. No release.

They're in a diner and Dean's halfway through a burger he doesn't even want. He looks at Sam's hands, bloody with ketchup and sticky with juices. He wants to suck those fingers in between his lips, lick them clean. He wants it so much, he finds himself leaning forward, his ass rising off the vinyl with a sigh.

Sam looks at him funny and Dean catches himself, thighs bunched awkwardly, the edge of the table pressing against him. Dean's breath races in his chest and it feels like everyone is looking.

"I'll do it," he says, teetering in this clumsy half-crouch. "I'll wear the corset, Sam. Whatever. Whatever you want."

Sam sighs and puts his burger down. Licks his fingers. Not slowly, not like he's teasing, but Dean whimpers anyway. Sam reaches out and traces the line of Dean's bracelet with one finger, leaving behind a smear of dampness, then snatches his hand back. His face hardens a little and Dean thumps back down in the booth. "Not good enough, Dean," he says finally and sighs. "Not nearly good enough."

 _Sam—_ Dean wants to say—protest—but this is a bracelet thing and his mouth never opens. Not once, at all.

 _Not Good,_ he thinks.

And then, a moment later: _Not Good **enough**_. Which, he realizes, is not the same thing at all.

* * *

At the motel, Sam loses the coin-toss and never once seems to think Dean would cheat (he did). He leaves, to get quarters and detergent and other small, petty things that don't matter nearly as much as what Dean plans to do in his absence.

He pulls the corset out of Sam's luggage and looks at it. The material is fine; he's almost afraid his fingers are too rough, will snag. It's surprisingly light, hardly weighing anything in his hands. The…long bits—the ribs—are slightly flexible, but mostly stiff and he imagines them against his skin, poking, binding. And then he has to stop thinking because he has lots more things to do before he's ready.

Ready for Sam.

Getting into the corset is as complicated as he fears; there are all these tiny hooks and laces that he doesn't really know what to do with and for a minute, he's not even sure which way it goes. It's too loose when he first puts it on and does up the hooks, and he almost wrenches his shoulder trying to pull the laces tight. A little squirrel of panic darts through his belly; he's aware he's running out of time. Sam will be back soon.

It has to be perfect. It has to be _perfect._

He takes the thing off again, grabs the lube and slicks his fingers. He's tight and he's tense; even one finger burns. But not in a bad way. Dean closes his eyes and imagines Sam slicking the lube inside him, smoothing the way for his cock. He bites down on his lip at the second finger, not in pain. It's not as good as Sam—inside him, touching him—but it's been a couple weeks at this point and…Jesus, it's _sex_. He thinks about three fingers or maybe even four—Sam's no little boy anymore—but he wants that first startling ache of possession. He wants it to hurt and he wants it to hurt because of Sam.

He cleans his fingers off—can't stain the silk—and attacks the laces a second time, tightening them _before_ he puts the corset back on. It's tighter, as he does up the ridiculous row of tiny hooks again, he feels his belly, his chest compress, feels his breathing quicken and shallow, pushing against the stiff ribs. Blood pools hotter and thicker in his cock; he feels like he could hammer nails through wood.

When he moves, he feels the slickness inside him; he feels soft there, open. It's hard to get used to moving in the corset; it binds at weird moments, pokes at others. Dean manages. He wants Sam to like it, to be pleased.

He turns the blankets back on the bed—neatly, because Sam is like that—and arranges himself, hands and knees. It's cool in the room—he can tell from his goose bumps—but he feels hot. So hot, like steam is spiraling up from his skin. He can't breathe, excited and shaky and scared.

It has to be _enough_.

He feels it in his whole body when he hears the Impala pull up outside; his belly sucks in even tighter, his thighs spread wider and his ass and cock tingle like he's just been fondled. By the time Sam actually opens the door, Dean feels like he's just about ready to come just from the touch of Sam's eyes.

The door shuts fast, slamming against the frame. Dean hears Sam inhale, loud and unsteady. He can't talk. He's too dizzy, too full to talk; he can only arch his back and thrust his hips and ass out, asking—begging—without words.

_Please._

"D-Dean?" Does he imagine that slight catch in Sam's voice? God, if he was a woman, he'd be so wet right now; the head of his cock already is, slurring pre-come. Sam still wants him, right? He didn't take the bracelet away, so the sight of Dean, obedient and ready, spread out and slicked up for him…that still has to mean something, right? "What is this?"

Dean kneels up, sits back on his heels and unsnaps the bracelet from his wrist. Cold sweeps him and then heat as he looks at Sam and holds it out. "Take it," he says. His voice comes out quieter, softer than it sounds normally, when he's pitching it for public consumption. Sam looks at him and Dean realizes he's shivering. "Please."

Sam just keeps looking; long enough that Dean wonders if this is really it, The End. Sam probably noticed the laces, how they're not perfect. Maybe he should have gotten someone to tie them for him, even though he squirms at the idea of having to ask someone, a stranger.

Then Sam steps closer and Dean starts to breathe. Sam's hand comes out, fingers covering Dean's outstretched ones, the bracelet trapped between them. Sam's eyes are serious and hot. "Are you sure?" he asks, just like he did when this started— _really_ started

 _"You wanna be mine? You want... Dean, you gotta be_ sure. _You... Just be_ sure _. Because... Because_ I will own your ass. _You get it?_ I will own you. _No more women, no more other men…_ Mine."

"Yes," Dean says. Just that. "Yes, Sam. Yes."

Sam's breath goes out of him, shivering hotly over Dean's goose pimpled skin. He takes the bracelet and puts it on the nightstand before running one rough-smooth hand across Dean from shoulder to flank, ending with a fingernail-scratching caress across Dean's ass. Dean's hips lurch a little and he shivers harder, lightheaded and aching.

"Dean," Sam whispers and it's the tone of voice that he usually reserves for first editions of books in their original languages or shit like that. "Oh, Jesus, Dean…" His thumb rasps across Dean's cheek, his neck and then he's tipping Dean's head back and crushing Dean's mouth with his own.

Dean feels where each of Sam's fingers dig into the back of his neck, his shoulder. They're like grounding rods, draining the excess tension out of him and leaving him boneless and malleable in Sam's grip. Sam growls and he grabs harder, delves deeper, like he's going to rip Dean apart and climb inside him.

Dean is fine with this agenda, by the way.

One of Sam's hand slides down Dean's body to cup and heft his balls, fingertips slipping behind them to press and glide. Dean thrusts into Sam's hand, his breath catching in his throat and he struggles with the thickening, urgent need of his cock to spurt and empty.

_Don't come. Don't come. Not until Sam lets you._

It's hard. Hard as his cock.

Finally, both Sam's hands come to rest on Dean's shoulders and he pushes Dean back forcibly. The sound that comes out of Dean shames him, but he doesn't care, yearning towards Sam without actually pushing against those restraining hands.

"Please," he asks breathlessly, desperately. "Sam, I… _Please._ "

Sam smiles, thick and sated. His fingertips feather against Dean's collar bones. "It's okay, Dean. Just… Wait, okay? I need you to wait."

 _It's okay._ Dean's breath sobs a little in his throat. The corset is so tight around him and it feels like the only thing giving him shape, keeping him from blowing apart into a million pieces. _It's okay._

He nods. He'll wait. If Sammy says wait…he'll wait.

Sam's smile widens and his thumbs stroke over Dean's throat, his jaw. "So good," he murmurs, approving. "God, Dean; I missed you, you know?"

Dean nods again. Yeah, he knows.

"Wait," Sam says again, and then he leaves Dean there, swaying and liquid.

Dean hears Sam behind him; moving things, clattering around, the quiet slither of Sam's clothes as they leave his body. Dean wants to look, but Sam didn't say he _could_ and it's important he get this right. He closes his eyes and tries to track Sam by sound.

_This is the sound of furniture…the chair, or the table…maybe both. This is the sound of something wooden and heavy against the dresser. This is the sound of Sam's jeans and boxers, whispering down over his narrow, strong hips, hips that can piston so hard into Dean that he feels impaled, like Sam's going to come out of his chest or mouth, hips that leave their own bruised kisses on Dean's or on his ass…_

"Dean."

He doesn't know how he knows. He just does. Dean looks.

Sam.

Sam is…

Dean swallows.

Sam is naked. Sam is naked and he's sitting in one of the cheap straight-backed chairs, facing the dresser, and his cock is hard and red, like blood's been smeared across it. Sam's legs are spread wide and his cock…his cock…

Dean catches himself before he drools over his chin, sucks it back real fast. He's staring. He knows he's staring. And Sam's just looking back at him, that same little smile turning up his lips.

"You want it?" Sam asks. His fingers curve around his cock, his thumb circles the ridge and head almost thoughtfully. "You want my cock, Dean?"

"Yes."

"You want it to fuck you? Fill you? Come inside you?"

Dean sways again. The corset makes his breath shallow; he can't stop the dizziness. "Yes." From drooling on himself to the dryness of the desert; there's no spit left in his mouth, his throat.

Sam sighs, tosses his hair back some, out of his eyes. When he looks back at Dean again, they're intense, focused. This isn't Sam, his kid brother. This is Sam who owns him, who loves him, uses him, cherishes him, wants him. Sam leans back a little, thrusting out his hips, his cock. Dean is again immediately captured by the movement, the sight. "Then you have to do it yourself," Sam says simply.

Dean gets up. He feels unsteady, but he's felt worse. He grabs the bottle of lube from where he left it and walks to Sam, feeling Sam's eyes on him the whole way. The corset moves in counter to him, jabbing and scraping his skin, making him sensitive. When he's standing between Sam's legs, he goes to his knees and looks up into Sam's face.

Sam skims Dean's cheek with his palm. Dean tilts into it. "It's okay, Dean," he says again and Dean nods. The gel is a little cold on his fingers when he squirts it from the tube. He warms it in his palm before he wraps his hand around Sam's cock.

Sam hisses through his teeth a little and writhes up into the touch. "Yeah," he groans softly as Dean starts to stroke. Dean leans in and presses his mouth high on the inside of Sam's thigh. He can smell his brother; rough, wiry hairs tickle his lips, his nose. Dean makes a soft, moaning noise.

"C'mon, baby," Sam says. His breath is fast, his tone wavering. "You want to be fucked? Come fuck yourself on me."

Dean's been waiting for this, for _Sam_ , and already he aches deep inside. Sam's legs draw in together and Dean moves to straddle him. Sam's hands come forward, seize onto Dean's hips. "No," Sam says. "Not like that. The other way. I want you to see."

Dean doesn't understand, not entirely, but he understands what seems like the important part and he turns around, his back to Sam. "C'mere," Sam says and guides him down so that he perches on Sam's thighs. Dean sees now that Sam's pulled the mirror down from the wall, set it right in front of the chair so he can see himself and Sam. Dean doesn't look at himself a whole lot, but he's surprised at how young he looks, eyes wide, his lips wet and parted.

Sam's fingers trace down the laces and Dean remembers his previous nervousness that he hasn't done them right, that they're too loose. "Sam," he says quickly, prepared to plead. Anything.

But Sam's fingers only soothe against Dean's spine. "You tried so hard," he says, a rumble that quakes through Dean. "So hard. But you couldn't quite get it, could you? It's not _quite_ tight enough. You still need me."

"Yes." Dean feels Sam gather the ends of he laces at mid-spine, tug at them experimentally.

"Let me help you." A second tug, then, harder than the first, cinching the corset so that it nips deeper at his waist, his pectorals. Dean gasps, chokes, moans—a combination of the three—and fucks against the air. His head lolls a little on his neck; he watches them through slitted eyes in the mirror. He can see the corset pull tighter, watch Sam's bare, wide shoulders flex to make it tighter.

"I'll always help you, Dean."

"I know." It's too much. Sam's hand. Sam's long-fingered, elegant hand presses into Dean's back, pushing him away. Sam's fingers pull on the laces, tugging him back. He can't breathe. It's too much and he can't breathe. "Sam," he says faintly. "Sam…"

"It's like music," Sam says. "Better than Metallica; the little noises you make. The way you gasp, going deep and ending high. Surprised noises. Hurt noises. Little noises like right before you come." He ties off the corset; his fingers run briskly up and down Dean's sensitive sides until Dean's almost sobbing. Dean's fingers are locked around his own cock, afraid he'll come if he doesn't hold on, hold steady. His other hand clutches Sam's thigh, like rock underneath him.

"Okay," Sam says finally. His arms sliding around Dean, pulling Dean tight against him. Dean's eyes close and he lets himself be held, focused on Sam's touch. "Okay, baby. C'mon now. Fuck yourself on my cock."

Dean nods, afraid of his voice, his ability to answer.

The first skimming touch of Sam's cock head against him makes Dean whine a little and buck. He didn't know you could starve for it, starve for sex, starve for touch. Sam slips away and he has to reposition himself.

Sam kisses Dean lightly, right in the middle of his back and says, "You don't have to rush. We're not going anywhere."

Dean's breath sighs out, his shoulders flex. He reaches for Sam again and takes a minute to really _feel_ Sam, warm and soft and hard, between his fingers. Who knew he'd turn out to be such a cock whore?

"I like it when you touch me," Sam says, his back writhing. His fingers press into Dean's hips. Encouraged, Dean strokes Sam firm but easy. Sam's cock twitches and Sam moans softly. Dean breathes again—as much as he can—and lines Sam up against him, bearing down.

Even driving, the first parting of his body over Sam takes him by surprise. He arches—which only brings Sam deeper—and gasps out his pain-pleasure, eyes closing.

"No," Sam murmurs. "Don't close your eyes." His voice is flat with effort as Dean rolls his hips, working himself down. Sam is so thick and heavy inside him; Dean's shakes and makes soft, bitten off noises. "Look. I want you to look."

Dean opens his eyes. In the mirror, he sees himself, spread wide over Sam's lap. His cock is burning hard, leaving blots of wetness on the silk front of the corset. His face is so open. He looks flushed and frantic, eyes dark, mouth wet and open. He looks naked.

Dean makes a soft noise in his throat and turns his face aside.

Suddenly, Sam thrusts up, fucking all the way home, opening Dean all the way and deep. Dean half-screams, body resisting the invasion. "Dean," Sam says, a warning.

Dean opens his eyes again, faces the mirror. The image of himself in it. Sam thrusts up into him again and Dean watches his mouth open wider, his body undulating. His hands are white-knuckled on the sides of the chair.

"I want you to see what I see," Sam says in Dean's ear, tongue stealing hotly around the lobe. A moment later, the bite of his teeth. "I want you to see how gorgeous you are." Another buck of Sam's hips, the drive of his cock deep inside. Dean whines in his chest, his throat, watching himself get fucked, watching Sam fuck him.

"Sammy," he says—moans, really.

"Shhh," Sam says. "Don't come yet."

Dean swallows and then gulps air frantically, fingers closing even tighter around the chair's edges. Sam is _right against_ that spot inside him, regular steady beats that threaten to fuse his spine and spill his brain out his ears. But _Sam said don't come_.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Sam's hands slip around Dean's sides, finger and pinch his nipples until they're stiff and sore. Dean surges into the touch then drives himself down onto Sam again. "I know you don't like to hear it. That it shames you. But you _are_ , Dean. You're so. Fucking. Beautiful."

Sam's fingers rake and tangle in Dean's hair, tug his head back, baring Dean's throat, making Dean arch and ride him harder, deeper. Sam's lips caress Dean's temple. "Never more beautiful than when you're mine." One catlike lick against his skin and then Sam's murmuring again, "You're still mine, yeah?"

Dean groans. He feels so raw, scraped and filleted open. Every touch borders on excruciating, borders on orgasmic and he can see it. How he jerks and sobs at Sam's every movement, every touch. "…yeah…"

"Do you see, Dean?" Sam asks. His lips scrape over stubble. "How beautiful we are together? When you ride me, when you take me in?" He kisses the side of Dean's face. "It's you, baby. What we do, all of this… It's you. My Dean." Sam's fingers skate across the head of Dean's straining cock, delicate, agonizing. "Come, baby."

Dean's orgasm comes up fast, from a little tingle in his balls to the first, milky spurt. He sees it happen almost before he feels it, watches his face transform, soften, shatter. Sam's arms wrap around him tautly, bands nearly as hard as the corset. Sam fucks up into him hard, grinding Dean down onto him as Dean spasms through it. Sam pants into the side of Dean's face. "Want you," Sam breathes thickly, "but only s'long as you want me."

Fumblingly, Dean reaches back, hooks his fingers around the heated nape of Sam's neck. _I want. I want._

"Oh, _fuck_ , Dean…"

He's watching Sammy's face in the mirror now; the way Sam's biting his lip, the desperate, manic tension that diffuses and flakes away as he comes. Dean can't help it; his eyes close when he feels Sam fill him, heat that spreads from his belly into the rest of him like a really healthy shot of Jack. His fingers clutch harder and Sam bends his head to nip and suck at Dean's shoulder, rocking Dean against his softening cock. "Love being in you, Dean," he says. "Love it when you want me." He pulls Dean back, so Dean rests against his chest. "You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes." Dean's tongue feels clumsy in his mouth, not that it's ever been the most graceful part of him. He's tired now and sore and he doesn't want anything so much as to sleep. Preferably with Sam's arms around him.

Sam laughs against Dean's skin. "Of course you would. But you have to get that it goes both ways. I'll do anything, Dean. Even…even if it means stopping."

Dean stirs. "No," he says, struggling up. "No, I don't…"

"Shhh." Sam coddles Dean back down. "We'll figure it out, Dean."

"No, you don't understand," Dean says, wriggling until Sam slips free and he can turn to look his brother in the face instead of through the mirror. "I already did." Dean tangles his fingers in Sam's sweated out, curling up hair. "I figured it out, Sammy."

Sam smiles. It looks good on him and Dean feels a surge of pride that he did that, he put that expression there. "Okay," Sam agrees and pulls Dean down again.

"Is it good enough?"

Sam's smile widens, he tilts his head into Dean's touch, eyes half-lidded. At the same time, his hands roam Dean's body, light, loving. "Yes, baby. It's more than good. It's great."

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by offtheceiling, nymeria, strippedpink, nilchance and mona1347, with my thanks.


End file.
